Catherine’s POV
Saturday.
The restaurant Elena chose was expensive enough to make a point and stiff enough to make me miserable.
I sat across from Harold Ricci and understood within thirty seconds why my mother had been so eager to call him “a real catch.”
He was forty-two, with a receding hairline slicked back under too much gel, and he wore a gold watch that likely cost more than my beat-up old car.
He looked me over slowly, as if he were inspecting something he might decide to buy.
“You’re the Vitale girl,” he said.
“I expected someone more impressive.
You’re a little plain.”
“It’s nice to meet you too.”
He waved at the chair.
“Sit.
I’m a busy man.”
I sat.
For the next twenty minutes, he talked about his money, his real estate, his cars, and the three buildings he owned downtown.
I stopped listening somewhere between the second building and the third mention of his BMW.
“Bottom line,” he said at last, leaning back in his seat with smug satisfaction, “you come home with me, and you never work again.
I’ll provide.
You stay home, raise the children, and keep the house.”
His eyes moved over me again.
“Nice life, isn’t it?”
He jingled his car keys as if the decision had already been made.
I gripped the edge of my chair.
“I’m sorry, Mr.
Ricci, but this isn’t going to work.
We’re not a match.”
His smile disappeared.
“No offense, honey, but you’re pushing thirty.
Girls your age get picky and end up alone.”
I was twenty-seven.
I didn’t bother correcting him.
Some men weren’t interested in the truth.
They only wanted to hear themselves speak.
Before I could stand, someone crossed the restaurant and grabbed my wrist.
“Catherine, what the hell is this?”
I knew the voice before I looked up.
Marco.
I pulled my wrist free and stared at him.
“I’m on a date.
Clearly.”
His eyes moved to Harold, and his expression darkened.
“You can’t be serious.
You’re throwing yourself at this man because you’re angry at me?”
“Who I date is none of your business,” I said.
“You’re about to be Isabella’s boyfriend, remember?
Try acting like it.”
His face tightened, but before he could answer, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and immediately picked up.
“Isabella?”
Her voice was soft enough for me to hear across the table.
“Marco, I think I twisted my ankle.
It hurts so badly.
Can you come get me?”
Marco’s entire attitude changed.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Stay there.
I’m coming.”
He hung up and turned to me.
“Isabella’s hurt.
Don’t let this man take advantage of you.”
I almost laughed.
“You really will run every time she calls.”
“She’s your sister.”
“She’s your lover,” I said.
“Don’t pretend this is about me.”
His face hardened.
“You’ve always been jealous of her.
Now you’re making up excuses because you can’t accept that she and I are together.”
He turned toward the door.
“Go,” I said.
“She might twist the other ankle while waiting.”
Marco shot me an angry look, but he still left without another word.
I watched him disappear, feeling nothing but exhaustion.
Six years together, and Isabella still only had to pretend to be hurt for him to forget everything else.
The moment he was gone, Harold leaned back in his chair.
“That your ex?” he asked, his voice full of fake sympathy.
“Playing around with your sister?”
“Mr.
Ricci, this meeting is over.”
I stood, but his hand slid across the table and closed over mine.
“Not so fast.”
Revulsion shot up my arm.
I ripped my hand away.
“Keep your hands to yourself.”
His face twisted with panic.
“You’re not going anywhere.
Your mother took my deposit.
Twenty thousand dollars.”
“The person who took your money was my mother.
Go collect it from her.”
I picked up my bag and turned to leave, but Harold moved faster than I expected.
His hand closed around my wrist and pulled me back so hard that my shoulder jerked.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“You take my money, waste my time, and then decide you can walk away?”
I looked down at his hand around my wrist.
His fingers were digging into my skin.
“Let go of me.”
He laughed, his breath heavy with wine.
“Your mother promised me a wife.
If you refuse to keep your word, then you can explain to me how you plan to repay what I paid for you.”
The restaurant had started to quiet around us.
A few people were watching, but no one moved to help.
Harold seemed to enjoy that.
His grip tightened as he leaned closer.
“You people think you can play with me because you have a rich family behind you?” he said.
“You’re going to come home with me tonight, and we’ll discuss how you’re going to make up for this.”
Something inside me went still.
Marco had spent six years treating my love like a resource he could use.
My parents had spent my entire life treating me like something they could hand over whenever it suited them.
Now this man thought a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit gave him the right to touch me.
I raised my eyes to his face.
“Take your hand off me.”
“And if I don’t?”
I seized his wrist with my free hand and twisted.
I moved fast, using the force of his own grip against him.
His shoulder wrenched into an unnatural angle, and a sharp crack echoed across the restaurant.
Harold let out a scream and dropped to one knee, clutching his arm.
“You broke my arm!”
“Your wrist is dislocated,” I said, looking down at him.
“And you should be grateful I stopped there.”
His face went white, then red with rage.
“You crazy bitch!
Do you know who I am?
I’ll sue you.
I’ll destroy your family.”
“Send the medical bill to my mother.” I pulled my wrist free and picked up my bag.
“She made the arrangement, so she can pay for the damage.”
For a second, Harold only stared at me.
Then the humiliation on his face turned into something uglier.
His eyes fell on the wine bottle beside his plate, and before I could move away, he grabbed it with his good hand.
“You ungrateful little—”
He lifted the bottle over his head.
The next moment, a shadow fell across the table.